


The Darkness Claimed Us

by isntthisjustwonderful



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Harry, Drama, F/F, F/M, Harry's name isn't really Harry, I might throw in Real Harry’s ghost at some point tho, Jaron is not Harry, M/M, Major?Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, OC centric, original storyline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isntthisjustwonderful/pseuds/isntthisjustwonderful
Summary: The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters, and with a dangerous new enemy on the rise, the Order will have their hands full, especially when allies become enemies and top priority figures go missing. Will they be able to pull through, or will the darkness consume them once and for all?
Relationships: Cedric Diggory/Jaron Riddle, Daphne Greengrass/Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy/OC, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	1. The Prisoners

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave comments on what you liked, and on what you think could be improved.

The bi-monthly trips to Azkaban were never fun, but over the last few months, Kingsley Shacklebolt found himself dreading them more than ever. Today, he was being accompanied by Minerva McGonagall and Alastor ‘Mad-eye’ Moody.

He met his two companions by the international portkey they had set up for the trip. Minerva appeared first, dressed in a long burgundy robe and emerald green cloak. She had forgone her usual pointed hat for today’s trip, but had a tartan scarf wrapped tightly around her thin neck. Alastor arrived only moments later, his presence given away by the tell-tale thump of his wooden leg. He wore his long trench coat and had his walking staff clenched tightly in his hand as he stumped his way towards them.

They greeted each other with grim nods.

They gathered around the portkey, a rusty tin, and braced themselves as it activated, pulling them through a tight vacuum, before spitting them out inside the guard house of Azkaban. The lone guard inside glanced up at their arrival, his lips tightening as he noticed Kingsley’s presence.

“So it is that time of month again, is it? I assume you’ll wish to speak with them again?”

“Yes, we would,” Kingsley responded neutrally, keeping his face devoid of emotion. His companions were not as successful in concealing their feelings. Alastor scowled, his face twisting bitterly. Minerva wasn’t any better, her lips pursing, her left eye twitching as a sign of her discomfort.

“Don’t know why, though,” the guard continued. “They haven’t said anything for the past eighteen months, and I doubt they’ll start today.”

“We have to try,” Kingsley returned, his voice guarded. “Until we know what You-Know-Who’s planning, we will need to continue to question them, no matter how non-withcoming they are.”

The guard simply made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat as he unlocked the guard house door. Leading the trio out into the prison halls, he relocked the door, hanging the keys on his belt. Though they were escorted through Azkaban’s halls by a guard every time they visited, Kingsley had visited so often in the past year and a half that he could probably navigate his way through their route blindfolded and drunk while under the Confundus Curse.

Azkaban had nine floors, each reserved for different punishments. The first floor was for the prisoners who were serving anywhere between a few weeks to two years for minor crimes. The second and third floors housed people whose sentences were longer, from three years to eight years. The fourth, fifth and sixth floors were for the prisoners whose crimes had endangered the public, broken the Statue of Secrecy or had been against the Ministry of Magic. They were imprisoned from nine years to forty years. The seventh and eighth floors were almost exclusively reserved for Death Eaters or supporters of the Dark Arts. Several of the inmates there had either been involved in muggle hate crimes, had performed Dark magic on objects or on people, both magic and muggle, performed experiments using Dark magic or were Death Eaters, supporters of Voldemort, the most feared Dark Lord in history. Their sentences were anywhere from forty to life.

The ninth floor housed the high security prisoners, who were under constant watch. There were only twenty cells on Azkaban’s top floor, and most of them had been empty for decades. Now though, six of the cells held some of the most top priority prisoners to ever grace Azkaban’s dark halls.

Two of the cells held Bellatrix Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback, some of Voldemort’s most feared Death Eaters. As the quartet passed her cell, Bellatrix let out a mad laugh.

“Back again, are you?” She cackled. “I thought you’d have given up by now.”

Alastor growled menacingly and Minerva’s posture stiffened. Kingsley ignored the insane giggles and mocking remarks. He was used to Bellatrix’s demented habits by this point. Gruff laughter echoed down the hall as they came upon Greyback’s cell. The werewolf was leaning lazily against the bars of his cell grinning, his sharp, shark-like teeth on full display. He didn’t say anything, but the mocking salute he gave them as they passed made his meaning perfectly clear.

Clearing them, they advanced on to the next cell, this time halting, leaning forward to peer inside. Stretched out on the plain, uncomfortable-looking bed pressed into the corner of the small space was one Zacharias Smith, an ex-Hufflepuff and known Death Eater. He had revealed his true loyalties at the seventh year graduation, along with several of his classmates. Voldemort had collected many of his new supporters with little hiccups, but Smith was one of the few who had stayed behind to fight the Order.

Smith, who had never shown much prowess in combat, had been a total game changer during the battle. He had been ruthless, several of his curses felling high ranking Ministry officials and Aurors. As the guard unlocked the door to Smith’s cell, he opened one eye lazily, watching as the guard opened the cell door, pulling a pair of magic-neutralizing handcuffs from his belt. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up today, proudly flaunting the dark tattoo emblazoned on his left forearm, looking completely at ease.

Striding into the cell, the guard yanked Smith into a sitting position, before seizing his wrists and forcing the cuffs on him. Smith followed the guard dutifully as he led them towards the interrogation room. Surprisingly, he had been their most cooperative prisoner when he was taken in for interrogation. They had one interrogation room on each floor, and this one was covered in several layered protection charms that prevented anyone from performing magic.

Kingsley, Minerva and Alastor took their seats on their side of the table as the guard shoved Smith into the seat opposite them. Lifting his cuffed wrists, the guard attached them to a metal bar running across the table which forced his hands to be in plain view. After ensuring that the cuffs were secure he took his leave, moving to stand guard out in the hall until they were finished.

For a few minutes, they only looked at each other, silent tension mounting. After a couple moments, Smith broke it.

“Isn’t this lovely. Last time Kings, you only bothered to bring some of those rookie amateurs you call Aurors. This time I get Mad Moody and Minerva McGonagall herself. I’m honored.”

“Cut the crap, Smith,” Alastor spat, his fist tightening on his staff. “You know what we’re here for, so start talking.”

Zacharias grinned madly. “Tsk, tsk. Where are those manners of yours, Moody, old man? Haven’t forgotten them in your old age, have you?”

Kingsley intervened before Alastor could take Smith’s head off.

“That’s quite enough. Just answer the questions and you’ll be returned to your cell.”

Smith’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated the statement. He leaned back in his seat, a smirk crossing his pale face.

“I’ll answer your questions today Shacklebolt, but today’s the last time I’m speaking.”

The trio straightened in their seats. This was the farthest they’d ever gotten with any of their prisoners. Kingsley collected himself quickly, clearing his throat. This could be the only chance they might get.

“Where is Severus Snape?”

The Potions Master had disappeared at the Battle of Division, as it had come to be called, since it divided the two sides into their separate groups. Snape had appeared a few more times in minor scuffles and events, but had always disappeared before authorities arrived. Now, he had completely gone off the radar, no one having seen hide nor hair of him for the past four months.

Smith raised a dark brow. “You expect me to know the answer to that, Kings? In case it escaped your notice, I’ve been stuck in this hellhole for the past year and a half. Not a lot of time to go check up on how my allies are doing.”

Letting out an annoyed breath, Kingsley decided to just move on.

“Where was Rabastan Lestrange at the Battle of Division? He was not among the spotted Death Eaters, nor was he captured later on.”

“He wasn’t there,” Smith answered flatly.

Minerva leaned forward, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Well then, where was he?”

Smith rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. The last time I saw him was at the Death Eater meeting a few days before the attack. We were leaving when the Dark Lord asked him to stay behind. Said he had a mission for him.”

Moody looked interested now. “Do you know what they talked about?”

“No. We had been dismissed already when the Dark Lord said he wished to speak with him. Any good servant knows not to linger in the Lord’s presence. It tends to make him angry. Any other questions?”

“That’s all we have for you,” Kingsley said, standing to go fetch the guard. The two returned, and the guard escorted Smith back to his cell. The three sat in the interrogation room in silence, waiting for the guard to return with the next prisoner.

There was a slight shuffling outside, then the door opened and the guard stepped in, practically dragging one Draco Malfoy in with him. The blond looked remarkably well cared for considering his status as a prisoner. Forcing him into the chair, the guard secured his cuffs to the table before leaving again. This time, Kingsley jumped right into the questioning.

“Who was named the new leader of the Death Eaters after Voldemort’s death?”

Voldemort had been slayed at the Battle of Division, having been mortally wounded by Dumbledore before he finished the Leader of the Light off. The Order knew a new leader had to have been named, as the Death Eaters continued to fight even without their leader.

“We will always follow the Dark Lord,” Draco drawled sardonically. “We shall never have any other master.”

“Voldemort is dead, you moron,” Moody barked.

“Alastor,” Kingsley warned. “Enough. Now, where is the location of Rabastan Lestrange?”

“The Dark Lord had a task for Rabastan to complete. He had not returned before I was imprisoned, and as I’m not allowed any visitors except my mother, I do not know if he has come back from his mission.”

“Smith told us virtually the same thing. One last question. What does this symbol mean?”

Kingsley pulled a photo from his pocket. He placed it on the table and slid it toward Malfoy. The blond leaned forward to better see the image in the dim lighting. It was a picture of a Death Eater’s forearm. Instead of the typical snake and skull, this tattoo featured an image of a caduceus with what looked like dragon wings flaring out from the sides. Both of the snakes wrapped around the staff had demonic horns sprouting from their heads. Weaving through and around the caduceus was a serpent twisted into an infinity sign, holding its tail in its mouth. Looking at the photo, Malfoy let out a soft laugh.

“I figured you’d ask about that eventually. I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll tell you what it means. That there is the symbol of the Blood Hunters. They bow to the Dark Lord, but they are loyal first and foremost to the Basilisk. He is the one who holds their full, unwavering loyalty and respect. The Blood Hunters would follow him across worlds. He could give them ten men and they’d raise him an army.”

“Who is this ‘Basilisk’ that you speak of?” Minerva murmured, her fingers drumming on the metal table.

Malfoy’s smile widened. “The Dark Lord’s son, of course.”

The revelation that Voldemort, evil genius extraordinaire, the most feared Dark Lord in over a century, had a child dropped a major bombshell on the three Order members. Ten minutes later, they finally gave up on attempting to pry the name of the Basilisk from Malfoy, as he evaded each question and demand with a devilish smirk.

Kingsley stood, stalking towards the door. He rapped against the glass smartly, stepping back to allow the guard to enter. He dropped back down into his seat as the guard wrested Malfoy from his seat, forcing him out into the hallway. They heard the jingling of the guard’s keys as he locked Malfoy back into his cell down the hall. There was a crackle from the modified speakers that had been placed all around the prison, then the guard’s voice echoed from the speakers through the dark fortress.

“Please send seven guards from floor five to assist with the transport of prisoner 74302077 to the interrogation room.”

Kingsley frowned, straightening. “That didn’t happen the last time I was here.”

Alastor hummed thoughtfully. “Something must have happened. Even the bastards up here don’t normally require eight guards. Even Lestrange and Greyback only require four max most of the time.”

“Well, I suppose we shall find out in a few minutes,” Minerva said, nodding her head towards the door. They listened in silence as the marching of guard boots echoed through the halls. Their heads lifted as they heard the loud clanking of chains, followed by an impressive litany of dark curses and threats. The door of the interrogation room was kicked open and the eight guards practically manhandled Theodore Nott into the room. Unlike Smith, who had complied silently, and Malfoy, who had only put up a minor inconvenience during transport, Nott was practically manic in comparison.

He struggled against the guards, managing to kick three of them off before they regrouped. It took a surprising amount of effort to secure Nott’s bindings, and two of the guards even knelt down to cuff his ankles to the floor. They were mostly successful, but one of the guards was nailed in the face when Nott lashed out with his foot, hitting her square in the face. There was a sharp crack as her nose broke, blood rushing forth. Cursing, she stumbled back, allowing another to take her place securing Nott.

Kingsley glanced at his companions, finding them looking slightly shocked at Nott’s vicious behavior. Minerva had a hand on her throat, and her face was rather pale. Alastor watched grimly, his eyebrows drawn together in a rough line.

When the guards finally secured Nott’s bindings, they retreated rather quickly from the room. Unlike the other prisoners, Nott seemed to have to problem hurling out a myriad of insults and barbs at them.

“You filthy bastards! Thinking you're so much better than everyone else, that you can get away with this! News flash! You’re not! I’d rather drown myself in the blasted sea than bow to you blood traitors!”

“Watch your tongue, boy!” Moody roared. “If you can’t keep that mouth of yours shut, I might just have to do it for ya!”

“You! You bloody, murdering scum! I hope the Basilisk looses its hounds on you for all of eternity!”

“Hold up a minute kid. You know the Basilisk?” Kingsley questioned.

Nott snorted, yanking hard at his chains. “Who doesn’t know the Basilisk? He was the one who got me permission from the Dark Lord to dispose of the prisoners as I wished. Don’t bother asking me his name. All I’m saying is that you’ll never find him.”

“Don’t count on that, lad,” Minerva warned. “Now, what do you know about the assignment Voldemort gave to Rabastan Lestrange?”

Nott started rattling his chains again. “He wanted him to get him some artifact from an old haunt. He returned with it the day before the grand reveal.” Here he paused to give a maniacal grin. “I haven’t seen him since. I only know he came back cause the Basilisk told me so.”

“Why would the Basilisk tell you that?” Alastor mused.

“He had taken me and a few others out hunting. Told us how pleased the Dark Lord was with Lestrange. I didn’t care that much. The Basilisk was showing us a most excellent way to capture a live bear. He even let us keep some of the small ones.”

Kingsley glanced at his companions, seeing the concern mirrored there. Whoever this Basilisk was, he had clearly inherited his father's power and natural command of respect and fear. How else would he know how to safely capture and tame a bear, of all things? Not to mention how reverently the Death Eaters spoke of him. Putting that in the back of his mind for later, Kingsley returned to the matter at hand.

“One final thing. What happened in the past two weeks that I am apparently unaware of to garner such extreme upgrades to your person?” He inquired, indicating the long chains draped around Nott’s thin form with a wave of his hand.

Nott lost his smile. “The guards they assigned me last time thought it would be funny to tie me to a rock twenty yards out in the middle of a storm. They didn’t count on my swimming skills, nor were they aware of their own pathetically abysmal ones, which is why they are now currently somewhere at the bottom of the North Sea.”

Kingsley blinked in surprise at this rather startling statement. “Why wasn’t anyone at the Ministry informed of this?”

“Probably because no one in this cursed joint wants anyone to know how shitty their guards are,” Nott sneered, his face twisting into a chilling cold mask. “So I got chains, seven more guards, and thirty more years to my sentence, as if it’ll make any difference.”

Not knowing how to respond to that statement, Kingsley covered his discomfort by standing to summon the guards. They entered warily, hurrying as quickly as they could to get Nott back to his cell at the other end of the hall. As Kingsley waited for the guards to return with the final prisoner, he felt a seed of apprehension settle in his stomach. All the captives hadn’t spoken before today, and everything they’d said was extremely beneficial to the light side. He knew there was some ulterior motive, but no matter how he looked at it, he couldn’t find it.

His musings were cut short by the opening of the interrogation room door. Unlike Smith, who followed obediently, or Malfoy and Nott, who deliberately made things difficult for the guards, this time the prisoner was the one leading the guard down the hallway.

Cedric Diggory had changed drastically since his school days.

His physical appearance was mostly the same, with his tall stature and neat dark hair. Despite being dressed in Azkaban’s ratty prisoner uniform, he still managed to look intimidating and powerful. Cedric was wrapped in twice as many chains as Nott had been, yet he moved much more easily. It was clear from the guard’s finicky behavior that he was scared out of his wits. Indeed, once Diggory was secured, he practically ran from the room.

Cedric’s mouth curled into a cold, cruel smile. “Hello Kingsley. Are you glad to see me?”


	2. Order and Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Order recounts the trip to Azkaban and receive a surprising missive from their newest adversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, lovelies. I apologize for the short chapter, the next one will definately be longer.

Sirius was sick to death of the dark, grimy halls of Grimmauld Place. He had been holed up in this infernal building for three years, and Dumbledore had tightened his already limited freedom farther after the events of the Battle of Division. The Order held meetings almost daily now, new information being shared and inspected for hours on end.

Sirius glanced around the kitchen at the other Order members. On his immediate left was his godson Harry. He was staring broodingly at the table. Brooding was all he seemed to do these days, but Sirius didn’t blame the kid. Next was Ron, Hermione, and the twins. Molly had fought against their induction fiercely, but after the Battle of Division, it had almost been unanimously agreed that they all needed to know what was going on, after so many of their own turned out to be traitors.

He growled quietly at the thought of how many had managed to deceive them. The Smiths, the Diggorys, the Lovegoods, the Shafiqs and the Macmillans. So many supposedly light and neutral families had turned on them in a coordinated attack, spilling highly valuable information into the Death Eater’s waiting hands.

To his right sat Filius Flitwick, Tonks, Molly and Arthur. They sat in silence, waiting for Madeye, Minerva and Kingsley to return from the Azkaban prisoner check. At the head of the table was Dumbledore, eyes fixed on the clock above the fireplace, watching the hands slowly circle the clock face. Just as the minute hand hit the twelve, the flames in the grate flared a sickly green.

Kingsley appeared, stepping out of the way to make room for Minerva and Alastor, who followed only seconds later. The three wore the same grim look, no doubt from the misery that hung over Azkaban like a cloud. Sirius shuddered to himself, his thoughts lingering on a dark cell, ghastly fiends, thoughts of revenge as his only companion. He jerked himself back to the present as the trio took their seats next to Dumbledore.

“Everything is running smoothly, I take it?” Dumbledore asked quietly, peering at Kingsley over the edge of his spectacles. Indecision flickered on Kingsley’s face, before it hardened again.

“Mostly. The only real hiccup we ran into was with Nott. Apparently sometime after my last visit, Nott’s guards tied him to a rock outside of the prison during a storm. He broke free and swam back to land, then threw the guards in before he was recaptured. Since, his guard number has increased and he has become significantly more violent toward authority figures. I have a feeling that he will not last the rest of the year there without going insane. Right now, he’s almost as manic as Bellatrix.”

Murmurs and whispers raced around the table. Dumbledore leaned forward, looking grave. “And the other prisoners? Did any of them have anything to say that’s worth sharing?”

Kingsley, Minerva and Madeye all exchanged glances. Kingsley took a bracing breath before continuing.

“Yes, actually. Smith, Malfoy and Nott all provided a significant amount of information. It worries me, considering none of them have said a thing before today.”

Dumbledore stroked his long beard thoughtfully. “That is indeed strange, but more on that later. What information have you found out?”

The meeting went on from there, Kingsley recounting the events of the Azkaban visit, from Smith’s cool detachment, to Malfoy’s bombshell revelations and Nott’s aggressive behaviour. By the end, the table was dead silent, everyone too busy processing the information they had received to talk. After a moment, Tonks spoke.

“Kingsley, you said that Smith, Malfoy and Nott all spoke today. What . . . what about Diggory?”

The air froze, tension in the room growing to unbearable height. People avoided speaking about the traitors as often as possible, but no one dared to speak about Cedric for a reason. If people thought that Smith was bad after his deception, he had nothing on Diggory.

Cedric had been spilling information to the Death Eaters since he had graduated, a fact they found out all too late. He had been the most ruthless during the Battle, death greeting any who dared challenge him. The blood of dozens had stained his hands, literally and metaphorically as he revealed himself during the Battle. He had challenged the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scimgeour, to a formal Wizard’s Duel. The Minister had accepted the challenge and both were given three minutes to prepare before the duel began.

Scrimgeour had only lasted as long as he did because it was clear that Diggory was holding back, toying with the Minister like a cat teased a mouse. The match ended violently, Scrimgeour’s decapitated head at Diggory’s feet, his wand in his hand.

Capturing Diggory had been damn near impossible, and they had only managed it by using an overwhelming amount of force. It had taken nearly fifty men to take him down, and he had fought the entire time, death meeting the unfortunate souls who got too close. Since the start of his term in Azkaban, Diggory had been kept in complete and total isolation, except for meal delivery and when Kingsley came to interrogate him.

Kingsley looked ill as he contemplated his response.

“He didn’t . . . _say _anything, but he did give me . . ._ this_.”

_____ _

Kingsley gingerly pulled a folded note from his pocket, holding it as if it was something that had recently died. He handed to Dumbledore, involuntarily wiping his hand on his robe, as if to remove an invisible stain. Dumbledore hesitantly took the missive, noting the blood seal that held it closed. With a murmured spell, a small cut appeared on his finger. A small drop of blood fell from the wound unto the seal. Upon contact with Dumbledore’s blood, the seal disintegrated. Dumbledore carefully unfolded the missive, picking at it with slow, deliberate motions. When the note was unfolded, Dumbledore levitated it to reading level and read its contents to the room.

_____ _

_**“To The Order of the Phoenix, I offer you my congratulations in capturing some of my most loyal followers. I thank you for taking care of them these past several months. Now though, I’m afraid I must take that duty back upon myself. However, there is something I think you need to know. You think that this war is over, that you have won. But you’re wrong. We’re still out there, and the war is just beginning. - The Basilisk.” ** __****_

_____ _

As Dumbledore finished speaking, several miles north, on an island in the middle of a cold, dark sea, the walls of cold, dark prison were blown apart by an explosion that could have killed the entire population of Great Britain. Prisoners streamed from their cells, running toward dark figures that appeared on the fringes of the prison. Prisoners were apparated from Azkaban in droves, the entire process taking less than an hour. The Order might not know it yet, but the largest mass breakout from Azkaban in all of history had just released all of Voldemort’s supporters back into his welcoming arms, with dozens of potential new recruits in hot pursuit. 

_____ _

As the smoldering ruins of the prison burned, the last of the Death Eater Disapparated away. A lone figure strode through the rubble, blood trailing in his wake from the few guards who had survived the explosion. As the prison around him burned, Cedric Diggory gave a vicious smile, and turned on his heel, disappearing from the island, his maniacal laughter echoing through the empty halls, mixing eerily with the groans of the dying.

_____ _


	3. The Snake In Lion's Clothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to meet the Basilisk and his crew, not to mention a particularly dark secret . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the break between chapters. This one's longer, I promise. Enjoy.

After the Order adjourned their meeting for the night, Jaron slipped from the room, retreating up to the library. He spent most of his time there nowadays, gathering information. He tucked himself away in a dark corner, making sure he was hidden from view. A flick of his fingers, and silencing wards settled around him. Jaron pulled an ornate mirror from his pocket, carefully holding it before him. He tapped the glass three times, waiting as the mirror glowed with a pale blue light.

Jaron’s reflection in the mirror disappeared as the glass began to swirl, forming a small vortex. Jaron gently laid the mirror on the ground as the vortex shot a small ball of light into the air. The ball hovered over the mirror like a holograph, slowly spinning and morphing. The ball started to take form, eventually settling into the whimsical face of Luna Lovegood.

“Hello, Jaron,” Luna chimed sweetly. “You’re just in time, the meeting’s about to start.”

The image shook a bit as Luna moved about on the other end of the mirror-call, but it stabilized again as she sat down. Jaron heard other voices entering the conversation, and Luna looked at him again thoughtfully.

“Jaron, would you mind taking on a more physical form? I think your presence will be required here tonight.”

“Alright,” Jaron acquiesced. “Just put the mirror down somewhere with some space first.”

Luna nodded, standing up. The mirror’s vantage point lowered, and Jaron placed his own on the ground. He reached out with his magic, feeling for the connection between the two mirrors. He focused on the opposite end, laying his hand on top of the mirror in front of him. There was a pulling sensation, then Jaron was no longer crouched in a dark corner of the Black library, but instead in a slightly-less-dark hallway with Luna Lovegood standing before him.

Jaron stood, picking up the mirror he had come out of. Luna waited until he was situated, before pulling him into a tight hug. Jaron laughed, ruffling Luna’s hair.

“Did you miss me that much?” he teased. “It’s been less than a week since you last saw me.”

“I know,” Luna pouted, “but it’s so boring listening to the others complain that you’re not here all the time.”

Jaron laughed at his pseudo little sister’s plight, gently extracting himself from her embrace. He strolled over to the cabinet in the hall and pulled out a dark cloak and mask. He tossed them to Luna, who began pulling them on. Jaron cast a location spell on the wardrobe, before pulling out his own mask and cloak. He cancelled the spell as he threw on his cloak.

His cloak was black as midnight, with only a few silver embroidery stitches visible. His mask snapped over his face completely, hiding his features from view. The mask had two slits to see out of, and it too, was black. It was carved into the face of a dragon-like serpent, six demon-like horns protruding from it. Jaron tugged on a pair of fingerless black gloves, before turning to Luna.

Luna had donned the robe he had given her, and she too, wore a demon-like mask. The two re-entered the large dining room. The table they usually used for meetings was pressed against the far wall, and all of the members stood in a semi circle facing the main entry to the room. They all wore masks and robes. Some bore the skull like mask of the Death Eaters, others the demonic mask of the Blood Reapers. The Death Eaters stood on one side of the circle, the Reapers on the other.

As they caught sight of Jaron, the masked crowd bowed. Jaron nodded at them, and Luna peeled off to join in her pace amongst the ranks. He headed for the small break between the two groups, where a throne-like chair sat. There was a second one beside it, but Jaron didn’t sit. Instead, he bowed to the dark figure situated upon the first throne.

“Rise, my son, and sit beside me.” The cool voice of Tom Riddle echoed in the silent room. Jaron rose, moving to take his place at his father’s side. Unlike what the Order thought, Tom Riddle was still very much alive. It had been a stroke of genius, and Jaron smirked as he thought about Rabastan Lestrange, held in a comatose state, in the grave that the Order had prepared for who they believed to be Voldemort. 

Father and Son waited in silence until a small knock sounded from the main door. Tom waved his hand, and the doors slid open with a groan. Everyone gathered sat up a little straighter as the procession entered the room. Dozens of Azkaban’s once prisoners were led into the room by the freed Death Eaters. At the front of the procession was Bellatrix, Fenrir, Draco, Zacharias and Cedric, all of them in their formal Death Eater attire.

The line halted, and the entire crowd bowed before the Dark Lord and his heir. Some bowed reverently, others hesitantly, some refusing to bow at all. Those people were quickly subdued, being brought to their knees either by the Death Eaters before them, or their fellow prisoners. Voldemort merely watched with a thin sneer, waiting for silence to again rein. When it did, he stood.

“Welcome, my friends,” Voldemort greeted. “All of you here are about to receive the offer of a lifetime. Join me, and be welcomed into our ranks. And, if you pass all of the requirements, you may join my son in his endeavors as a Blood Reaper. This is a one time opportunity, and if you do accept my offer, remember that this is a lifetime of commitment and loyalty. There is no leaving. The punishment for trying is . . . severe. Now, for those brave souls amongst you, step forward, and your place shall be determined.”

For a moment, nobody moved, then a young man stood, carefully extracting himself from the crowd. He stood uncertainly for a moment, before Zacharias waved him forward, separating him from the rest of the group. Smith halted him five feet from Voldemort, before retreating back to his place guarding the prisoners. Voldemort slowly circled the man, looking him up and down.

“What is your name, boy?” He asked, still circling.

“Barnaby Foxx, My Lord.” The man, Barnaby, looked fearful, but his voice was strong as he spoke.

“Well, young Barnaby, there are a few . . . requirements in joining me, but I think you’ll do just fine. Now, let us begin.”

Voldemort began rattling off a slew of questions, including age, parental lineage, blood status, Hogwarts house, view on Dumbledore, view on the Order of the Phoenix, personality, occupation and political standing. Barnaby answered each question carefully, as if taking great caution in not angering the man before him.

Which, Jaron thought, is a very smart move. I rather like this one . . . I wonder if I can convince him to join the Reapers. He’d make a lovely addition.

Voldemort finally stopped questioning Barnaby, and though he didn’t show it, Jaron could tell he was relieved. Voldemort was still circling him, before he halted in front of him with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Well, Mr. Foxx, I do believe congratulations are in order. Welcome to the Dark Side.”

Barnaby relaxed, bowing. “Thank you, My Lord,” he breathed, “thank you!”

The process continued like that for the next four hours. Many of the inmates willingly joined, but others who were sensed to hold great amounts of helpful information were placed under the Imperius and pressed into service. There were a few who outright refused changing sides. Some were instantly disposed of, others enslaved for the new recruits to practice on.

Once everyone had been separated into separate groups, Voldemort turned to his son. He gestured for him to come forward. Jaron rose, sweeping forward in a swirl of dark fabric. The new recruits seemed to tense in unison as he approached, unnerved by the demonic mask and silence he carried with him. He observed them, eyes selecting the potential new blood that he could use.

“New Death Eaters, attention!” Cedric barked, catching the focus of everybody in the room. He glared particularly fiercely at a group in the back where they had been talking quietly amongst themselves. When it was silent, he fell back, falling into step with Theodore behind Jaron. 

“You will now be judged by The Basilisk,” Theodore announced to the room, grinning madly behind his mask. “The few who pass will be inducted into the Blood Reapers.”

He gave no more information. Jaron strolled around the room with his two shadows, making two full laps before he halted at the front of the room before the recruits. A hissed command had Cedric and Theodore wading into the crowd, ordering others into line behind them. The pickings seemed random, but both men had received very clear mental commands that directed them to their targets. Once they had everyone, they marched them to the front of the group.

Once the two were clear of the new recruits, Malfoy, Smith, Bellatrix and Greyback strode forward to surround them. Voldemort waved his hand from where he sat on his throne.

“Take them to the barracks and show them the ropes, all of you,” He said, indicating the veteran Death Eaters. “Each of you will have acolytes assigned to you by tomorrow morning. It will be your job to train them. Unless I state otherwise, all failures will be shared between master and acolyte. Do you understand me?”

There was a ripple of “Yes, My Lord” around the room, then all of the Death Eaters swept the recruits away. The only people left now were Jaron, the Blood Reapers and the thirty or so potential followers, as Voldemort had left with his followers. Jaron had only nine members before, and each of them had gone through rigorous training, both physical and mental. The original nine consisted of Cedric, Theodore, Luna, Fahad Shafiq, two werewolves named Billie and Archer respectively, Reagan and Rebel Smith (Zacharias’s older sisters), and a Korean witch named Leiko Tanaka.

They all went by code names, which was essential for keeping their identities secret. Some of the names they had come up with themselves, others had been given by the general population. Cedric was called Death’s Champion by many wizards, and it both fit and stuck. Theo and Luna were The Joker and The Riddler respectively, both names taken from muggle comics as the descriptions fit them very well. Fahad was the Panther, due to the meaning of his name. Billie and Archer were the Nightmares, a joint name they had brainstormed. Reagan and Rebel were the Shadows, and Leiko was the Viper, with her deadly speed and equally sharp tongue.

Unlike the Death Eaters, who all were marked on their left forearms, the Blood Mark was placed wherever the follower could best hide it. Reapers were agents of the night. They worked undercover, and almost no one knew their true identities. With the exception of Cedric and Theo, the Reapers were faceless, silent shadows who wreaked havoc wherever they went.

Billie and Leiko stepped forward, ushering the inmates into a line, standing them shoulder to shoulder. Jaron nodded at the two, and they retreated, bowing. Jaron, who had kept mostly silent throughout the entire ordeal, began speaking, eyes roving over the faces before him.

“You have been selected to be part of an elite group of agents. To join you must pass a physical and mental test, which will determine your place. If you do not meet my standards, you will stay with the Death Eaters under my father’s control, apprenticing under one of the preexisting Death Eaters. Be warned, I expect full loyalty, and even a thought of wavering to the cause will have dire consequences.”

The thirty before him were tense, and as Jaron walked the line, he carefully picked through their minds, taking care to hide his presence. By the time he finished, he had already eliminated several of the candidates. He stalked back to the front of the room, his original nine spread out behind him.

“You eight,” Jaron commanded, picking them out, “follow the Shadows to the barracks. They will give you a lay of the land. You will be put into apprenticeship with the others in a few days.”

Reagan and Rebel strode forward, not bothering to stop to allow the others to catch up. The eight who had been dismissed hurried after them. As if on instinct, the remaining twenty drew together, closing the gaps that had been formed in the line. Jaron nodded in approval at the movement.

“For the rest of you, welcome. Your training will begin in the morning. Each of my original nine will receive two acolytes who they will train. The remaining two I will train personally. When I am not here, you will be placed in another group. The groups will rotate every few weeks once I feel you have all mastered a skill. Panther, Viper, show this group to the barracks.”

Fahad and Leiko bowed, before sweeping from the room, the twenty inductees scurrying after them. Jaron turned to the remaining five.

“You are dismissed for the evening, Reapers. I will send a message with the acolytes you will be training in a few days. Until then, teach them the basics and make sure they don’t try anything.”

The Reapers bowed, dispersing once they rose. The only one who didn’t leave was Cedric, and Jaron gestured for him to follow. They left the dining room, Jaron leading through the hallways. The air around them was electrified with different wards, but they passed through them easily. Jaron halted before a pair of double doors. A touch of his hand, and the door opened. Cedric followed him in, shutting the door behind them with a snap, before moving to take off his mask, which was identical to Jaron’s, with the exception that it was silver, not black.

Jaron removed his own mask, shrugging his cloak off. He scooped them up, striding across the room. He opened his bedroom door, pausing to chuck both mask and cloak into his wardrobe. By the time he returned, Cedric had ditched both his mask and cloak onto a chair. He turned as Jaron entered, a smirk crossing his face as he saw the change in his appearance.

“Couldn't stand looking like that goody two shoes anymore?” Cedric drawled.

Jaron rolled his eyes, glancing at his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. His skin was pale, his features sharp. He had inherited his father’s dashing looks, his dark hair tied back in a ponytail that fell halfway down his back. His mother’s icy blue eyes were reflected in him, and they cut through others like knives. He had his father’s tall stature and athletic build, which was a far cry from the body he usually inhabited.

For most of the time, Jaron walked around wearing another's skin. He was a perfect stunt double of one Harry Potter. The boy in question had actually been killed during the Triwizard Tournament when he and Cedric had been transported to the graveyard for Voldemort’s return. Jaron hated the boy with a passion, as he was the reason he had grown up without a father, their only interaction possible through Nagini.

Cedric had joined his own father, Amos, by Jaron’s side during the ordeal, and had helped him perfect the glamour he wore like a second skin. For the past three and a half years, Jaron had masqueraded around as Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding World. He had only had a few slip ups with Granger and the Weasleys. He found them completely unbearable, and the youngest redhead harassed him whenever there was an opportunity.

“My poor baby,” Cedric crooned, sliding an arm around him.

“Oh shut up,” Jaron snickered, poking Cedric’s stomach. “I have a few hours until I need to go back to that infernal mausoleum . . . what say you and I make the most of it?”

Cedric’s smile was devilish as he pushed Jaron against the wall. They enjoyed the few hours together, to say the very least.


	4. A Traitor Among US

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore gives a lot of bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting in forever, my motivation has been at zero for the past, like, three weeks. Also, sorry the chapter is so short, this one was mostly just a filler. The next one will be longer, and generally more exciting.

Ginny sat in the kitchen of Number 12, trying not to do something she’d regret. After the disaster of the seventh years’ graduation, she had been quarantined in either this dismal building or the Burrow. Although her brothers, Hermione and Harry had been allowed to attend the Order meetings, Ginny was still outlawed to her room so she didn’t overhear anything. That didn’t mean she hadn’t found ways to try and eavesdrop on the meetings, but nothing ever seemed to work, and it was impossible to try and worm information out of the others.

She had tried to sneak some information out of Harry, but he had cleverly danced around every question, avoiding her probes until dinner. Ron she didn’t bother with, as Ginny had lived with him long enough to know he was as ill tempered and stubborn as a bull. Hermione was a possibility, but most of the time she missed the question because her nose was buried in some book or other. Ginny picked disinterestedly at her food, glancing around the table. The mood was somber, almost everyone wearing a tired or grim expression on their faces. Ginny had just swallowed a bite of food when the fireplace flared a sickly green, and Dumbledore tumbled out, a wild look in his eyes.

Startled by his sudden appearance, several people choked, dropped their silverware or spilled their drinks. Tonks jumped badly, upsetting her goblet. Harry, with lightning quick reflexes born from years of Quidditch practice, lunged forward and caught it before it spilled. Farther down the table, Sirius’s knife and fork clattered to his plate in a startlingly loud cacophony, and Madeye’s wand was leveled at the fireplace before they realised who had come through. Professor McGonagall stood, eyeing Dumbledore questioningly.

“Albus? Are you alright? What’s going on?”

Dumbledore looked grave. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but an emergency meeting must be called. Everyone will be in attendance, even those under seventeen,” He said, sweeping around the table. “I fear we have quite the disaster on our hands.”

The next hour was hectic. Most of the Order members were already in attendance, having stayed after the meeting for dinner. Those who were not were summoned. There wasn’t enough room to fit everyone in the kitchen, so they moved to one of the larger living rooms. A few high powered cleaning and heating charms later, everyone was crammed on old furniture or piled on the floor.

Dumbledore stood in front of the fireplace, eyes raking over the room. He looked older than Ginny had ever seen him. The room was thick with tension, everyone waiting for someone to say something.

“I thank you all for assembling so quickly,” Dumbledore started. “I have just come from the Ministry of Magic, and I am afraid I bear terrible news. Earlier this evening, there was a mass breakout from Azkaban.”

Gasps and shrieks circled the room. Ginny paled, gripping tightly at Hermione’s hand. The elder witch squeezed her hand in comfort, her own face unnaturally palid.

“Who . . . who escaped?” McGonagall whispered, hand pressed against her throat.

Dumbledore’s face grew somber, until he looked every one of his one hundred and seventeen years. “Everyone,” He said softly. “The wards around the prison were shredded with powerful magic and several explosives decimated the holding cells.”

A petrified silence hung in the air. Horror was etched on the face of everyone in the room.

“What happened to the prisoners? To the Death Eaters?” Harry asked, gripping his wand tightly.

Dumbledore bowed his head. “The uncaptured Death Eaters portkeyed or Apparated every prisoner out. It seems that this has been planned for a very long time. There were no survivors, and the remains of the prison are unsalvageable.”

Ginny held in a sob, wiping at her tears as Dumbledore continued speaking.

“The reason I have gathered you here is not just to inform you of this tragic occurrence, but of another dark problem that we face. I have considered the timing and elaborateness of the plan that was put in place to break the inmates out, and I have come to a grim conclusion.”

“And what is that?” Kingsley asked.

Dumbledore’s face was stormy as his eyes swept the room again. “That there is a traitor among us.”


End file.
